by Roddy Doyle
Back to the telly. Refill first.
The wall. In.
I sit down. I won't speak.
My head's falling. Stop it.
The girls have gone. Ah well. Telly's off. I just fell asleep. It's been a long day. Night night, everybody. Night night. See you in the morrr-ningggg.
—When you wish upon a star —
Makes no difference who you are —
Anything your heart desires —
Will come to youuu —
19
Charlo and my father. High Noon. The two of them standing there, facing each other, staring, my father at the window, Charlo at the door. My mother trying to get out of her chair, trying to smile. Denise and Wendy on the floor looking at The Golden Shot. The rest were out or upstairs.
Sunday afternoon.
I'd brought him home for tea. I'd been told to.
—I want to see him, said my father.
—He's very nice, said Mammy.
—I want to see him anyway, he said. —It's about time I met him.
They looked at one another, Daddy and Charlo. I hadn't told Charlo to be nice; I was hoping he'd put on a bit of a show. He turned up in his usual gear, the parallels and bomber jacket. Wearing denims on a Sunday was a big thing back then; it was almost like saying that you didn't believe in God. And his bomber jacket, zipped up even though it was lovely out, real spring weather. I thought he looked great but I could see him now through my father's eyes. I saw him looking at Charlo's socks. Mammy was still trying to lift herself out of the chair. She wasn't fat or awkward or anything; she probably just felt weak. I know I did.
—This is Charles, I said.
I nearly burst out laughing.
—Charles, said my father.
—Howyeh, said Charlo. —Mister O'Leary.
He was trying. I really loved him now. He was doing it for me, wrecking his Sunday, doing his best.
—Howyeh, Missis O'Leary.
God, he was gorgeous.
—Hello again, Charles, said Mammy.
I don't know why she said mat; again. Maybe she sensed that Daddy was going to like Charlo — she often guessed things wrong — and she wanted to remind him that she'd seen him first. Maybe she hoped it would help us relax. He was the first fella I'd ever brought home. I was eighteen.
Twenty-one years ago.
—Sit yourselves down, said Daddy.
—We're watching Bob Monkhouse, said Mammy. Charlo said nothing.
—D'you like Bob Monkhouse, Charles? said Daddy.
—He's alright, said Charlo.
—We like him.
—He's good guests, said Charlo.
I nearly fell off my chair. He was really trying.
—He does, said Daddy. —Sometimes.
Daddy looked at Charlo looking at the telly. He was being horrible; I remember. He was waiting. He was going to get Charlo — I could see it. He looked mean that afternoon. We watched Bernie The Bolt put the arrow tiling in the crossbow. Wendy was scratching her leg, trying to keep up with Charlo, the telly and Daddy. Denise was just staring at Charlo.
—I wonder is it all a cod, said Daddy. —What d'you think, Charles?
—Don't know, said Charlo. —The prizes are real.
It was a brilliant answer; it shut Daddy up. It made me nervous though. It was more like the real Charlo, much more than cheeky.
—Left a bit, said Mammy, and she laughed.
—Mammy! said Denise.
—Catweezil's on after this, said Daddy. —Although, God knows, the reception could be better. D'you like Catweezil, Charles?
—No, said Charlo.
I'll never forget how uncomfortable the chair was that afternoon. I can still feel it.
—Do you not?
—I think it's stupid, said Charlo.
—We like it, said Daddy.
—It's a kid's programme, said Charlo.
—We like it.
—It's brutal.
—We like it.
There was nothing after that.
The contestant in The Golden Shot won a car but no one said anything.
Tea, a few laughs, the two of them going off together for a pint, me and Mammy staying behind pleased with ourselves — there was never a hope. Did I think I was going to be able to write through this without hitting the fact that my father had decided to hate Charlo before he even saw him? Charlo was dead right, letting him know that he didn't give a fuck what he thought of him. If it hadn't been Charlo — if it had been a lad in a suit with a car and aftershave and a good job with a pension it would still have been the same. I knew that the whole thing was going to be a disaster. My father was a nice man but he could be very contrary and stubborn. He was being protective, I suppose; no one was good enough for his daughter. He was a nice man. But something was always going to happen that afternoon. I'd known all along, but they had to meet eventually. It was me and Charlo now. Charlo's clothes, my hair, Carmel's skirt — something would be said and bang! Some excuse, any excuse. But not Catweezil. I hadn't anticipated that. The whole thing ruined by fuckin' Catweezil.
Mammy got up to go to the kitchen. I was going with her. I'd given up. It was my father's fault; I have to say that.
—Catweezil's on now, he said.
—I'll be back in a minute, she said.
—You'll miss the start.
—There's the ads first; I won't miss much.
—Don't ask me what happened while you were gone, he said. —That's all I'm saying.
I remember every moment and detail. I remember it better than this morning. I followed Mammy into the kitchen. I didn't care about leaving Charlo with Daddy. There was no point. They hated each other; they were always going to. I didn't blame Charlo. It was my father.
Mammy pretended. I let her. I pretended too; it was a nice occasion, the ham was nice and thick, the rain was staying away. I made sure that the butter wasn't too hard. I wiped the salad-cream and ketchup bottles. Daddy hated them dirty. I scraped the hard ketchup off the lid with a knife. I put the cat's tray out on the back step. That was where it went when we were eating. I wondered what was happening in the living room. Nothing; they'd both be staring at the telly, hating each other's guts. I didn't care.
I was seething, becoming furious.
I sliced the bread. Mammy put the lettuce, the tomato, the egg, the scallions, the ham on each plate. I looked at Mammy. It was strange, and still is even though I've gone through the same amount of years now myself: she was different. She wasn't the same person she'd been when I was smaller. She used to be bigger, happier, noisier. Lots of things were different. It wasn't just that she was older. She was still young; she was probably younger than I am — she was only eighteen when they got married. She was grinning away and concentrating and blocking out everything except the salads on the plates — and she looked miserable. She looked so sad. She hadn't worn a new piece of clothes in years. She didn't drink, she didn't smoke; she didn't do anything except sit in front of the telly and watch the programmes that he put on and say yes and no when he spoke to her: she didn't even knit.
It wasn't just her. He was different too. He'd become a bitter little pill and a bully. He made rules now just to make us obey them, just to catch us out. He used to laugh a lot but now he couldn't or wouldn't and he hated hearing laughter in the house. That was why he liked Catweezil, because it wasn't fuckin' funny. Charlo was right; it was brutal.
He used to be different. I know he was; I remember it. He used to play with us and act the eejit, always saying and making up stupid things.
—Be the hokey mokey mac.
He said mat to get on our nerves, out loud so the whole street could hear him. He liked pretending he was from the country. Or he'd put on an English accent.
—Stop saying it's good for the garden, George.
He said that every time it was raining. It was from an ad. He said it for years.
Then he stopped. And Charlo in the house was making me notice it.<
br />
—A little warmer, said Mammy, —and we could nearly have it in the garden.
—Yeah, I said. —It's lovely.
—Are the bottles nice and clean?
—Yeah.
Charlo was right. It was pointless trying to please him; he'd never do it. Mind you, I didn't fully realise then that Charlo wouldn't have crossed the road to please anyone. Him and my father were very alike. She said — twenty-one years later. The wise old woman of the bottle.
20
A post mortem by the State pathologist found that Mrs Fleming had been struck twice across the face but there was no evidence of a sexual assault.
That was the part that made me get sick as I read it. Not the killing, the murder. I was ready for that.
. . . there was no evidence of a sexual assault.
My stomach fell, and hot sour liquid rose up. I managed to get my head to the side and my hair out of the way and I vomited onto the kitchen floor. I nearly followed it. Carmel held me.
. . . there was no evidence . . .
Jesus Christ. The hugeness of it; the evil. There were things that had happened in that house that I'd never know about. Because there was no evidence. There were no witnesses. No one and nothing.
—It's okay, love, said Carmel.
The things we say. Sometimes they make no sense, sometimes they're just packed with lies. I'm grand. Don't mind me. You fell. It's okay, love.
—What did he do, Carmel? I asked.
She just held me.
From the beginning.
My husband, Charles 'Charlo' Spencer, murdered a woman. Mrs Fleming. Gwen. A fifty-four-year-old housewife. The wife of Mr Kevin Fleming, a fifty-three-year-old bank manager. The mother of three grown-up children. He killed her with a shotgun. In her kitchen.
Back further.
Mrs Fleming answered a ring or a knock on her door, probably both, on Thursday morning, the seventeenth of February, 1994. It was before eight o'clock. She opened the door and my husband and another man, Richard 'Richie' Massey, were there waiting for her. They were wearing balaclavas; runners, blue jeans and black zip-up jackets. One of the men was holding a shotgun — brandishing a shotgun, it said in the Herald. That was my husband. The other man, Richard 'Richie' Massey, pushed Mrs Fleming back into her hall. She fell back and screamed. The two men followed her in and closed the door. The man with the shotgun ran to the kitchen — he knew exactly where he was going — and met Mr Fleming as he was coming from the kitchen to see why his wife had screamed. He was dressed for work but had not put on his shoes. This was what my husband said to Mr Fleming:
—Good morning, good morning, good morning.
Mr Fleming asked him what he wanted and tried to see past him, to see mat his wife was alright.
—She's grand, said my husband.
Mr Fleming saw Mrs Fleming standing up. He called her name. Richard 'Richie' Massey grabbed Mrs Fleming's arm and pulled her towards the kitchen. Mr Fleming saw his wife looking at the phone on its table as she went past it. He thought she looked very calm, that perhaps she was in shock. She said nothing. She didn't resist. She just looked at the phone.
—Into the kitchen, please, Kevin, said my husband.
He jabbed Mr Fleming with the barrel of the shotgun. Mr Fleming was shocked at how painful it was; he actually thought he'd been shot. For a second. Then he did what he'd been told to do. The other man, with Mrs Fleming, followed my husband and Mr Fleming into the kitchen.
—Very nice, said my husband. —Even nicer when you're inside.
Mr Fleming remembered his exact words. Mr Fleming knew then why the men were in his house.
—Right, Kevin, said my husband. —Here's what's what.
Mr Fleming remembered the exact words.
—You'll go to work. To the bank. You'll get twenty-five thousand pounds in tens and twenties. You'll put them in a bag. You'll give it to my pal, my associate here. How's that sound?
My husband then turned to Mrs Fleming.
—Stick the kettle on, Gwen, he said. —Like a good girl.
Mr Fleming remembered. Emer O'Kelly started reading the news headlines. It was eight o'clock. Alan Dukes alleged that there was a whispering campaign against him in Fine Gael; the ANC had given major concessions to the Zulu-based Inkatha Freedom Party; Sir Patrick Mayhew said that the end of violence could transform the North's economy.
—I'll tell you one thing, said my husband. —It's cold out there. You'd want your coat.
He was taller than Mr Fleming. He bent down a bit and looked into Mr Fleming's eyes.
—Your grey one.
Mr Fleming saw the face grinning through the balaclava. Richard 'Richie' Massey laughed.
—What do they want, Kevin? said Mrs Fleming.
—A cup of tea, Gwen, said my husband. —Any questions, Kevin?
Richard 'Richie' Massey was going to accompany Mr Fleming. My husband was going to stay with Mrs Fleming. Richard 'Richie' Massey was going to phone the Fleming home when he had the money in his possession. My husband would then leave.
—No questions asked, said my husband. —You'll need your shoes.
Mr Fleming's shoes were in the kitchen. He had polished them the night before and left them on a sheet of newspaper. Mr Fleming sat down and put on the shoes. He was surprised that his hands weren't shaking as he knotted the laces; he was quite pleased about this. He tried to comfort Mrs Fleming. He assured her that she wouldn't be harmed, that it would all be over in no time. My husband agreed with him. Mr Fleming felt that his wife didn't really know what was happening; she was in a daze. He wondered if she had been hit when she'd fallen in the hall, or before. There was no reddening, or any other marks on her face. He remembered later that he was glad that she was dazed; the ordeal was easier for her that way.
My husband sat at the kitchen table. He rested the shotgun barrel on the back of the chair beside him, aimed at Mr Fleming.
—The kettle, Gwen, he said.
When Mr Fleming had laced his second shoe he went to the kettle and lifted it to check that there was enough water in it. My husband did not object. Mr Fleming switched on the kettle.
—Pity now you can't stay for a chat, said Charlo. — Duty calls but.
Mr Fleming remembered his exact words.
Richard 'Richie' Massey held Mr Fleming's arm. It was a mean grip, unnecessary. Mr Fleming resisted it long enough to stop and kiss his wife's cheek. Again, he assured his wife that everything would be alright.
—What's going to happen, Kevin? said Mrs Fleming.
—Nothing, love, Mr Fleming remembered saying. — I'll be back home in no time; nothing.
—Don't worry, Kevin, said my husband. —We won't get up to anything while you're gone. That right, Gwen?
Mr Fleming remembered that that was when he first felt really terrified. He didn't want to go. He was scared, not of anything that was going to happen to him but of what he was leaving behind.
—Let her come with me, he said to my husband.
—Ah now, Kevin, said Charlo. —Don't be stupid. It'll be alright; don't worry.
He pointed the shotgun at Mrs Fleming.
—Off you go, he said to Mr Fleming.
Richard 'Richie' Massey brought Mr Fleming into the hall and out to his car. (I'd never heard of Richard 'Richie' Massey. I resented it. Even when I thought I was going to vomit again. It upset me that Charlo had done all this with someone I'd never known.)
Mr Fleming drove.
That's where the facts about Charlo stop, until the last big one.
Mr Fleming drove his own car, a Volvo. There was no other car in his drive, and none that he noticed on the road outside his house. Richard 'Richie' Massey sat in the passenger seat and turned on the radio. He stuck his finger in the cassette socket.
—Any good tapes? he said.
Mr Fleming indicated the cassette rack between the seats and Richard 'Richie' Massey spent the rest of the short journey flicking through the cassettes. He rarely looke
d up.
—Load of shite, he said, more than once.
He didn't notice the roadblock.
The Flemings lived in an estate between Malahide and Portmarnock. Mr Fleming drove his car onto the Coast Road, turned left and headed for Malahide. He looked in the rear-view mirror. There was one car behind him, none in front. The traffic was usually heavier. He remembered thinking that and wondering if it meant anything.
Richard 'Richie' Massey didn't have a gun of his own. They must have — him and Charlo — they must have decided that the only thing they needed to control Mr Fleming was Mr Fleming's love for his wife; he wouldn't do anything to put her in more danger. (From what I've read, they were right: Mr Fleming loved Mrs Fleming.) Either that or they just couldn't get another gun in time and they decided to go ahead with the plan anyway; I don't know.
The roadblock was on the Coast Road, just before Oscar Taylor's restaurant. Mr Fleming saw it ahead. It spanned both sides of the road. It wasn't the more usual check-point; they weren't looking for tax and insurance. It was definitely a roadblock. For him. He looked at Richard 'Richie' Massey. He was still flicking through the tapes. Mr Fleming didn't slow down.
—All classical shite, said Richard 'Richie' Massey. — Have you no jazz?
Mr Fleming hoped that by coming at the roadblock at speed the Gardai would be alerted before he stopped. He was right. Armed men ran at the roadblock. A police car was put straddling the road behind the block; the driver got out and ran. Mr Fleming braked. The car skidded. Richard 'Richie' Massey was thrown forward and hurt. His face hit the dashboard. The car stayed on the road. Mr Fleming got out and ran to the roadblock.
—They have my wife! They have my wife!
He was surrounded by armed and unarmed Gardai, uniform and plain-clothes; more Gardai went past him. He was dropped to the ground.
Mr Fleming couldn't see the man who spoke.
—She's in the car?
—No no. At home. At home. Please!
21
The wedding day. Patches of it were wonderful; nothing has changed that. I've good memories and some nice photographs. The ones taken outside the church. I look lovely. Charlo looks handsome. I look modern; you'd never think it was long, long ago. The flares on Charlo's trousers are the big give-away. And the hairstyles. All the hair split down the middle. People stood differently too back then, like they weren't confident, like their jackets were too small for them. Still though, it's not a bad-looking bunch of people. Both families. The aunts and uncles, cousins. Boyfriends and girlfriends, husbands, wives; kids and babies. Two families that were getting bigger by the month. From all over Dublin and some from England. A boyfriend from Limerick, one of my cousin's. He sang The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down later on. My father is smiling. So is Carmel. It was the only time my father smiled that day, I think; he always smiled for the camera. Denise is squinting. My mother is looking at my father. My brothers look like dwarfs beside Charlo's. The weather was nice; bright. Denise isn't the only one squinting. The photographer had us all looking bang into the sun. He was a dreadful eejit.
